


The Day We Parted

by jazz_cat



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Multi, POV Original Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 03:26:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19242859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazz_cat/pseuds/jazz_cat
Summary: It is a truth well-known that it’s good to “pass by Paris” on your way to become an adult. For Élodie, however, there is no getting back. Paris is her final destination. She ran away from something but didn't think of running to something. In her journey she meets some old friends and make some new. Her sceptical, practical nature is challenged in the back room of "Café Musain" where a group of activists tries to change the world.





	The Day We Parted

# Élodie

It is a truth well-known that it’s good to “pass by Paris” on your way to become an adult. “Pass by Paris” means spending some time in the capital, try to rocket start your career, not to loose all your parents’ money, and then get back victorious to your hometown in province, also known as the rest of the France.

For me, however, there was no getting back. Paris was my final destination. My promised land, of sorts.

The truth is, Paris is hardly a promised land. The only promise in Paris is the one you make with yourself in the beginning, and that is not to become one of those people who sleep on the pavement because they’re so poor. I admit, there were times when I thought even that fate could be better than the one I had in my family home. But that was before I saw those people, or more accurately – tripped over one. It happened on my first day in the capital, after I had got off the train at the Gare de l’Est, all my belongings in two valises and one huge backpack.

Trying not to fall on my face under the weight of my backpack, I was making my way toward metro station under the station. I felt like Humpty Dumpty, being bumped into, pushed or unceremoniously shoved aside by people in hurry. Another truth well-known about Paris is that everyone always rushes somewhere. Probably the easiest way for suicide in Paris is to just stop in the middle of any moving crowd.

So there I was, flowing with the crowd, half descending, half falling down the stairs in the main gallery. I abruptly stopped when my shoe sticked to something that turned out to be a human limb. The human face shrieked at me, using the very wide choice of curse words. My first instinct was to run, obviously. Except that I couldn’t – not with my two valises and a huge backpack.

Luckily, at this very moment my roommate-to-be emerged from the metro entrance, making good use of her elbows. This didn’t surprised me – Cosette always was close to perfect or just perfect in things she had been doing. I kind of figured she would also be an exemplary Parisian.

“I’m so sorry I’m late”, she said, a little out of breath, completely ignoring the shrieking person lying on the floor. I remember being rather shocked at that. I mean, how can you ignore another human being like that, especially if he’s doing so much noise? It took me around two weeks in Paris to apply this method of ignorance, which in the beginning seems very sad and cruel, but after a while you shrug your moral conflict away, because ignoring all those people seem to be the only way to survive.

“How was your journey? God, you have a lot of things! We’re all set up at the apartment. There’s also a surprise for you, I can’t wait to see your face when you see _it_! Oh shut up, would you?”

 She finally turned to the man I stepped into. Surprisingly enough, he just did shut his mouth. Then he rolled his filthy sleeping bag and a piece of carton, and went away.

“I have a feeling I’m not going to get this city”, I said.

Cosette just shrugged.

“You’ll be fine. It’s a city of survivors, and if anything, you’re that. Come along and give me one of these… _putain_ , this is heavy”.

# Combeferre

We were standing at the pavement, our heads perked up.

“I give a five he’s going to fall down,” said Courfeyrac, lighting up a cigarette.

“I have only two and faith in our friend,” responded Prouvaire.

“Hey guys, is it hanged straight?” shouted Bossuet from above. He was balancing on the ladder, putting signboard above the front door. The gold letters on a desk painted navy blue read “Café Musain”. It was a project our friend dreamed of since he had been in law school and still had some hair on his head. It was finally coming up to life, thanks to some business shark called Feuilly who one day overheard it in some pub or other. Now it’s been over a year since that happened, and Feuilly was part of the group. At this very moment, he emerged from around the corner.

“Why would you let him hang the sign by himself?” he asked as he approached us, frown on his face, stern look on the Bossuet trembling along with the old ladder. “Given his bad luck it’s not going to end well.”

“Because he wanted to very much, and he’s actually stronger than us,” I said.

“Also it’s fun,” added Courfeyrac.

“We tried to convince him to wait for you, but you were running late and he had grown impatient.”

“I bumped into some girls with the backpack bigger than them.”

“Were they pretty?” asked Courfeyrac, his tone nonchalant, his eyes still on the Bossuet.

“I don’t know. I haven’t quite seen because of the backpack. It was really huge. I did however invite them to the opening, so you may be able to assess that yourself.”

At this very moment Bossuet fell from the ladder.

“I’m fine!” he announced from the hedge that surrounded his building.

“I win,” announced Courfeyrac, throwing away half smoked cigarette and drew out his hand to Prouvaire.

He looked at him coldly, no word, and move to the bushes to help our friend.

Feuilly turned to me.

“Is Enjolras going to be at opening?”

“I guess he is. He said so anyway.”

“Good. I want to introduce him to some people interested in his project.”

“Which one? Because currently he’s onto throwing down a government. I don’t know if it’s kind of PR you need for your place.”

Feuilly just smiled with his non-smile and padded me on the shoulder.

# Élodie

Another thing you should know about Paris is, there are no elevators and sometimes even no escalator in the metro. We climbed probably a thousand of steps before we went to the light of day, breathless and covered with sweat. I was pretty sure that straps of my backpack melted into my shoulders, and I’d never be able to take it off. We stopped for a moment. Cosette dropped my valise and was holding her side.

“I think I pulled something”, she panted. “We should’ve called a taxi.”

I just sat down on the curb, trying to get off some weigh from my back.

“Don’t!” Cosette grabbed my arm and tried to lift me up. “If you sit down now, you won’t get up. It’s not far from here, I promise.”

“Maybe we could call the taxi now?”, I suggested.

“No point. There is no way he’ll park anywhere close. We’d pay for nothing, really. Come on, you can do this.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure I can’t.”

“Excuse me, are you ladies alright?”.

A shadow appeared over my head. It was followed by a man. I raised my head.

“Peachy,” I responded.

“Do you need help with these?” he pointed at my luggage.

I’d refuse. I mean, showing a complete stranger where you live is not the best idea. But before I uttered a word, Cosette gave a sigh of relief.

“Could you?”

And without waiting for an answer she shoved one of the valises at him.

“That’d be great”. We’re living just around the corner.”

“In the apartment with very strong locks”, I muttered.

“Not a problem. Would you like to give me that backpack, too?”, he asked me.

“I’m not sure it’s possible.”

“Why not?” he frowned.

“I think it melted into my shoulders and we’re one”, I confessed deadpan.

For a second he looked like he’d smile.

“Would you mind giving it a try anyway?”

Surprisingly enough, the backpack parted with my shoulders without any additional pain. Still, I felt like I wouldn’t be able to walk upright ever again. We were going down the street, Cosette cheerfully chatting with our helper. I was dragging the second valise, few steps behind them. Before we reached our building, we got to know the guy’s name is Feuilly; that he’s twenty-seven but never been to college. He owned some businesses though, and the last of them was a restaurant close to the Sorbonne. All in all, I was quite sure that in reality, he had been a drug dealer.

“You should come to the opening. It’s this Friday”, he proposed, putting down my things. We reached the door to the building; it was one of these sandstone tenements with grey roofs Paris is famous for.

“That’d be great!”, exclaimed Cosette. “We’d love to, right, Élodie?”

“We owe you a drink anyway”, I agreed reluctantly. It wasn’t exactly the best moment to ask if “opening” doesn’t really mean some drug deal.

“Cool! Give me your number and I text you details.”

# Combeferre

I threw my keys on a kitchen counter.

“Marco!”, I shouted into the apartment.

“Polo!”, Enjolras’s voice came out somewhere from upstairs.

We – or rather he – lived in the two-story apartment, one of those things that were impossible to get when you’re a student. Fortunately, that was Enjolras’ parents’ apartment before they came back to their house in the south. When we got our bachelor’s degree, they gave it to Enjolras, decided he’s grown enough to have it. He proposed that I moved in, since the room I had been renting was a dump. He said he hadn’t felt comfortable alone in such large space, and his father explicitly had forbidden him to turn it into a shelter.

“Hey, do you want to order some takeout?”, I shouted again.

“Not hungry! But would you mind turning on coffee machine? I’ll be right down.”

We were sitting down by the kitchen counter when Courfeyrac ran in.

“You’re aware I gave you spare key for emergencies?” Enjolras’s voice was stern.

“Yes. In fact, I have one,” replied Courfeyrac. “I’m already late for work, and I’m in desperate need of a white shirt”.

“I already borrowed you two, what happened to them?” I asked incredulously.

“They’re waiting for a laundry day,” he explained calmly.

“And the one you got from me?” added Enjolras.

“Same.”

I looked at Enjolras. He cleared his throat and asked:

“Courf, when was your last laundry day?”

“When my mum visited”, he confessed. “Look, are you going to help me out, or not?”

“Sure we will,” I said, jumping from the stool and heading to my bedroom.

“But under one condition,” I heard Enjolras. “We’re going to do some laundry on Sunday, and we’re taking the rest of our clothes back then.”

“I’m not sure if there’s going to left me anything to wear, but sure. I’m not in position to negotiate anyway.”

# Élodie

I was speechless. Not that normally I’m a talkative type but that’s just a choice. At this very moment I simply couldn’t find the words. Not only the right words but any of them.

I touched lightly the lacquered surface of the piano. I lifted up the cover and run my fingers through the top of keys. I inhaled loudly and sat down.

“So, what do you think?” asked Cosette. She seemed a little bit uneasy.

“I – I – I just don’t…” I mumbled. Okay, I thought to myself, get a grip. “It’s amazing Cosette but I feel a little uncomfortable you and your dad had gone through so much trouble. I don’t have to pay you rent, that’s already huge. And now this… how could I ever repay you?”

She waved her hand.

“My dad counts that when you’ll become a hot-shot lawyer, you’ll remember about him. As for the trouble, there’s none, really. This piano was left at this new venue dad’s firm had bought and seemed in perfect state to play.”

“You could sell it”, I observed.

“Yes, I guess. But we thought we’d do some good by giving it to you. If you don’t want it, we still can try to do that though.”

My fingers clenched the piano cover.

“No! No, that’s not what I mean. I’m so grateful. It’s just…”

Cosette looked at me tenderly and took my hand.

“Look. I know you have hard time letting people do something for you. Trust me, it cost me nothing, nor did it my dad, and we actually _gained_ something by making you happy.”

That’s the thing about Cosette and her dad. They always try to make some good. They work in the soup kitchen down the 12tharrondisement two times a month. They buy school stationary for the poorest children in the neighborhood. Last year, Mr. Fauchelevent’s company sponsored building the shelter for the immigrants. Thanks to them, I was able to continue my musical education and even got into the conservatory in Lyon at the age of sixteen. That of course didn’t pan out because of my parents. Although Mr. Fauchelevent tried to talk to them, they were… well, them. I believed they tried to punish me for trying to have a life, to get away. At time it seemed to me that they succeeded.

 

That night, Cosette’s dad asked me to walk him to the hotel after talking to my parents. I stormed out before they had any time to object. We were walking mostly in the silence but when we found ourselves on the street where hotel was, Mr. Fauchelevent stopped and put his hand on my arm.

“Élodie, you’re a smart girl,” he started. “You’re also the very first friend my daughter has ever made. There were always the two of us. She hadn’t had trust to other children since I adopted her. You’re like a sister to her.”

I lowered my eyes. I wasn’t sure where this was going.

“I’m sorry to say this,” Mr. Fauchelevent continued, “but your parents have too much personal trouble, and they seem unable to put you first, as they should.”

I gasped and look at him. I knew that, of course. I was sixteen and I wasn’t daft but I’ve never heard anyone stating the obvious. They were my parents, of course they wanted the best for me – that was the usual approach when somebody had to face the problem.

He had to mistaken my reaction for indignation because he patted my arm gently. There wasn’t pity in his look, only sadness.

“I didn’t mean to offend you, kid” he said.

“No, that’s not it” I stuttered. “It’s just – no one ever said it before, not to me anyway. You’re right.”

He smiled at me. This smile was something that he and Cosette had in common, even though they weren’t related. It made you do whatever it was that could please them.

“As I said, you’re smart. You also have talent for music”, he proceeded. “I can’t help you very much until you’re a minor. Of course, I’ll do whatever it is in my power. I’ve already spoked to your music teacher and she promised me she’ll make sure you practice.”

I opened my mouth to make an observation that it was kind of useless since I’m not going to the conservatory, but he raised his hand.

“I know you think there’s no point in it. You’re wrong. You can’t waste your gift. You also have to make it to Paris to university. You’re going to be eighteen, your parents can’t impose anything on you. That’s our goal for now. You keep on playing and you make it to Paris. I take care of a rest”.

 

I made it to Paris then. The one thing Mr. Fauchelevent forgot to mention when he visited my parents was the fact, that my career plans may change. I still played as I promised. I still loved it, too. But I was more grown-up now, with a huge debt to my best friend and her father – because no matter what they said and how many times they said it that they don’t want me to repay them, I was going to. And the only way to do it, was to make something of myself. World doesn’t really need a lot of pianists these days, though. My chances of making money of my piano skills where rather small since my proper education was finished at the age of sixteen. I wasn’t very good at math or science. I fainted when I see the blood. I couldn’t be a doctor then, or an engineer. Since my favorite class always was history and I wanted to earn money, convinced that money equals independence, I decided to go to law school.

Honestly, on that day, sitting by the piano, my luggage placed in my new room, I thought I was starting over. That from no one, everything was going to go my way. Well, “everything” never does, does they?

**Author's Note:**

> English isn't my first language so I'll be grateful for any tips and corrections. As to the story, it's kind of an experimental form for me. The plot itself has been growing inside of my mind (and several notebooks) for some time now, but I couldn't bring myself to write. So I guess it's also the cure-story for writing block.


End file.
